


Cultural Exchange

by Searofyr



Series: Most blessed and most cursed [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Gen, Green Pact (Elder Scrolls), Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27863173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Searofyr/pseuds/Searofyr
Summary: From the journal of Salyn Darovi, no title, Windhelm 2E.When your adopted little brother is a Bosmer with a Green Pact cult in his past, diplomatic dinners can get complicated.
Series: Most blessed and most cursed [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039801
Kudos: 5





	Cultural Exchange

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a prompt reply:  
> Prompt: “Did you eat yet?” from HircinesHuntingGround

It’s a few nights before the vaguest attempt at a diplomatic meeting since Rigurt met the Proxy Queen in Alinor. And it's also a direct result of that, which nobody quite wants to admit but everyone knows anyway.

King Jorunn was having memory issues and for some unfathomable reason couldn’t decide who had been the hero of the Pact, Diesala, Riacil, or I. In a quiet moment, I discreetly explained that dragon breaks can have that side effect, and depending on the viewpoint, it was all of us. He cursed ‘those damned mages’ for a bit and then invited all of us to Windhelm and insisted for all of us to be present at a planned state dinner with the above-mentioned Proxy Queen, some Bosmer emissaries, and some Pact dignitaries. I was obligated to attend because no matter if I had or hadn’t acted in the position of Jorunn’s Pact hero, at least the Proxy Queen knows me from Summerset.

Sil excused himself with work. But Almalexia is going to be there.

Back home, I asked him, “You’re going to leave me alone with your sister?”

He said, “You will live. She's getting used to the thought of you.”

And that was that. I know. Let her shine. It makes sense. 

I’m terrified.

We’ve been staying at the king’s palace for a few days now, and it’s good to reconnect, and it’s been too long since I’ve last seen Riacil. He’s been studying with Diesala in some self-imposed self-finding quest. My own quest is still to get him to come to Clockwork City. Maybe sometime soon he’ll get tired of Artaeum and consider it.

For now, night after night we’re drinking in the palace hall and talking, and in theory we’re supposed to be feasting, I think as Jorunn’s apology and bribe for goodwill to his people for inviting all these elves into their city. But Riacil’s been avoiding the food. I knew he hasn’t been following the Green Pact for a long time now, so I couldn’t figure out why.

So eventually, when he ignored his plate again and ordered another round of mead again, I had to be the obnoxious older brother and ask, “Did you eat yet?”

His features closed down, and there was that disparaging and somewhat fearful look down to his plate, and then he raised his eyes again, looked at the fire down the hall, looked at the wall hangings or at whatever else, not the food. “No. Not hungry. But I’m thirsty. And mead is sustenance, too.”

“It really isn’t,” I said.

“It is! It’s made of honey. And so…”

“Riacil.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you back on the Pact?”

He gave me a forced grin. “I thought that’s what we’re celebrating.”

Blame my own fair share of mead I’d already had that night, I was slow to get it.

“The Pact,” he said.

I blinked. “Damn it, Riacil.”

A servant finally noticed his empty cup and refilled it. Refilled mine, too, while he was at it.

“Thanks,” Riacil said and raised his cup. “Blood for the Pact!” And in a quieter voice, “Not the other one, though.”

I sighed and raised my own cup. “Let’s drink to that, then.”

So we did.

After a while, they passed stew around, and Riacil refused to take anything at all, and I had to try again.

“Listen,” I said.

He shot me that look that says he doesn’t want to talk about it and I’m ruining his mood. Well, that’s what big brothers are for; shouldn’t have agreed to the proposal then. His fault.

But I decided to try with bad humour first. That’s his thing. You get further with him with that sometimes. “So listen, you’re already pretty, I’m sure Lorkhan still loves you if you eat something.”

He snorted. “Fuck you.”

Not bitter or angry, that was good. That meant I could proceed. Maybe the mead was making him malleable. “And since you already know that… You know that, right? Or do I have to have a talk with him? I’d rather avoid that, to be honest, I’m afraid he’s somewhat out of my power league, but I will if I have to.”

Riacil grinned at last. “Salyn. It’s fine. We’re fine. Alright?”

“Alright. What then? Scared of the Ooze after all? Had those nightmares again? Want to ask them for something without any plants till you get over it?”

“It’s not…” He looked frustrated now. “It’s the opposite. If you have to know. It’s not the Pact. Except it is the Pact. But not that I’m following, or not following, or am afraid of not following anymore.”

“Alright. Then what? You need to eat. I have to insist on that.”

He sighed. Pushed his plate away. And the empty bowl that would have contained stew had he taken any. “You want to know? Maybe you don’t, though. Think well. Can’t unknow it.”

Well, fuck. If your little brother wants to spare you, it’s got to be bad, and you can’t let him. I laid my arm around his shoulders for a moment, said “Tell me,” let go of him again. Not too much. When he has a hard time talking, you’ve got to leave him his pride, or he won’t.

He chewed on his lower lip in a way I’ve seen before somewhere, I can’t put my finger on it, but it suddenly looked familiar – but not the issue now. Concentrate. He looked up at me. Sat closer. Lowered his voice. “It smells like people, alright?”

I blinked. “Ah.” So it was because he _had_ followed the Pact, and wasn’t happy about it, I knew about that already. “Well, I don’t think that’s what they’re doing here, unless they’re _really_ trying to be hospitable to those Bosmer coming here.”

Riacil snorted. “Diplomats? There’s going to be more like me among them. That’d backfire. Anyway. It’s not like I don’t know this cooking, I’ve lived in Windhelm long enough. Pigs and some imported guar, mixed in stew, with a bunch of spices. It’s just like… You want to know? The next step that you can’t unknow.”

In for a bean, in for a beanstalk. “Tell me.”

“So you know how our cult was a bit too enthusiastic about the killing and serving up of traitors thing. We’d end up with… quite a few. And normally when you have a feast, it’s supposed to all go away that same night, they say to honour the fallen and not let their bodies go to waste, or they come up with something else, I’ve heard a couple of different reasonings. But in _truth_ , on the night of the kill, you still have the hunger and the vengeance and the bloodlust, and the rush of battle, where you’re not thinking straight. That works in your favour. Left-overs the next day? Think about how enthusiastic people are a day or two later about feast left-overs normally. Now think if it’s people. And now think if it’s their _own_ people, short time ago, just now declared traitors.”

“So…”

“So people get less enthusiastic about eating, and it stacks up. But also, this is supposed to be a rare occurrence. When you constantly have new enemies and traitors on the dinner table, the rush and the blood-lust have worn off. Can’t do this with routine setting in. Everyone nibbles a bit cause they have to, but then one has a stomach ache, one’s tired, one is still feeling weird cause of that potion for that wound they’ve taken… Means more left-overs.”

“You could have opened a soup kitchen for the poor at some point.”

He grinned. “I suggested that. Or invite the poor on feast day. Carthes was against it. Has to be the tribe itself. He called it the tribe whenever he wanted to _really_ drive home that this was tradition, though it wasn’t. Anyway. Throwing the food away or to the dogs or stranglers or what have you would have been unacceptable in the extreme. So, The Stew was born. Chopped up, cooked for a long time over extra hot fire, to preserve, with a lot of expensive spices, allegedly from hot stinging bugs and so on, to mask the taste, pour in a lot of distillate of something, we didn’t ask of what, again to preserve and for the taste and in the hope that you’re hungrier drunk and will take an extra portion. And…”

I was morbidly fascinated, and somehow that translated into laughter. I caught myself again. “And it smelled like that.”

“Just like that. It’s uncanny.”

I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Hold on.” I got up, somewhat shakily, feeling the mead now, and made my way to the kitchen.

Riacil tried to call after me, but I was on a mission now.

When I entered the kitchen, the staff looked up, some knew me. Some had that look where they aren’t sure if they know me and if they’re allowed to know me and if that makes them crazy. More dragon break side effects.

I decided to make it easy for them and introduced myself and how I was connected to the upcoming diplomatic dinner.

“Now,” I said, “this is important. We have Bosmer diplomats coming over. As you know.” I noticed my speech was slurred, but that wouldn’t damage my words’ credibility in the eyes of any true Nords.

“I know,” the main chef said, hands on her hips. “Nothing made out of plants. The little Wood Elf told you?”

A kitchen maid shushed her. “That’s the hero of the Pact, you can’t talk about him like… Or… is he?”

This’ll take a while to settle. Oh well.

“He’s my adopted brother,” I said. “And yeah, that’s one part. The other part is, there are quite a few Bosmer diplomats who no longer follow the Green Pact. You’ll want to be considerate of them, too.”

The chef groaned. “Why do they have to be so complicated? As if the High Elves weren’t enough.”

“That’s not all, I’m afraid. See, my brother pointed out that the stew you’ve been making… Well, the type of meat, in combination with how it’s prepared… It’s… uncannily reminiscent of a kind of… left-over dish. That’s made after battles. When there were… a few too many enemies to… dispose of right away. I’m sure we all understand each other. Anyway, it has very unfortunate implications. For a peace dinner, we don’t want to do this. Or have the smell around. It can also be traumatic if we’re unlucky. Or worst case, be taken as a sign of aggression.” Of course that last part was made up, but who cares?

The chef blanched, cleared her throat. A few others covered their faces, one laughed.

“Well, fucking… What am I supposed to make then? What’s not offensive?”

“Good question,” I said. Of course I hadn’t thought that far. “Fish? I don’t think anyone’s had to honour dead fish enemies after battle. I hope.”

“Well, fuck. Alright. I’ll have to talk that over with… Oh with fucking everyone again. Well, thanks. I’m annoyed, but I guess it’s better to know ahead of time. Thanks to your brother for saying something, too.” She shook her head, muttering, “Someone could have fucking told me. What do they think I am? Do they think I’m too delicate to know or what?”

“Hey,” I said, “he’d never ask himself, but could you… Would you mind… Right now?”

She sighed. “Him, too?”

“He’s been relying on mead as sustenance for the past few days. Which I can’t entirely fault him for, I love mead almost as much as any Nord, but…”

“Oh alright. I’ll be fixing something. As a thanks for preventing diplomatic disaster, I guess.”

So we’ll be having fish. You’re welcome, Riacil.


End file.
